


Trust

by MamaMystique



Category: Hannibal (TV), Hannibal Lecter Series - All Media Types
Genre: F/F, Panic Attacks, Sexy Sad Conversations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-03-15
Updated: 2016-03-15
Packaged: 2018-05-26 19:07:24
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,560
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6251953
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/MamaMystique/pseuds/MamaMystique
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Bedelia has trust issues. Clarice finds out why.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Trust

**Author's Note:**

  * For [kmo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/kmo/gifts).



> Prompted on Tumblr as: 10. “Can’t you let me do this for you just this once?”

“Please,” Clarice whispers, “can’t you let me do this for you, just this once?” 

Bedelia is wrapped in the tight circle of her arms, their lips only breaths apart. She has to tilt her chin up to meet Clarice’s gentle gaze, reluctant to escape the warm heat of her embrace. The knot in her stomach is wound tight but her mouth is open, and her guard is low enough that she allows the words lodged in her throat to escape.

“Clarice,” she murmurs, “I’ve told you before. You don’t need to, this isn’t about reciprocity.” At the mention Bedelia becomes aware of her own long fingers tracing along the dip of the woman’s naked spine, silently counting and naming every bone, the traces of a heat of a different kind clinging to them.

Clarice sighs, pressing her lips to Bedelia’s chastely. “And what if I  _want_  to? More than anything, what if it’s all I want?”

Bedelia can feel a blush blossom in her chest, unfurling like reluctant petals of a late-blooming rose. It  _hurts_. All at once she feels ecstatic and exposed, stripped of her defenses and forced to stumble out into the world. When she doesn’t reply Clarice shifts, her taller form coming to curl over Bedelia’s, her eyes open and searching for answers in the icy blue gaze that skitters away and hides under long eyelashes. “Bedelia,” Clarice insists, “is it something I’ve done?”

The blonde lets out an uneven breath, her palm coming to cup Clarice’s cheek. “No.” There is a ferocious insistence in her words, the same kind of ferocity that made Clarice fall in love with her in the first place. “This is not your fault. Please don’t think that.”

“Do you not want me to?” Clarice pries further, concern laced in the tremble of her voice. “Oh god, Bedelia, please don’t tell me you do this when you don’t want to. We can stop, I can-”

Bedelia silences Clarice with her index finger pressed firmly over her lips. There is the hint of a smile pulling at her cheeks, bemused. “No. Trust me, I very, very much enjoy this, and I especially enjoy it with you.”

The younger woman nods in relief, and lowers herself to kiss Bedelia’s brow, the bridge of her nose, her cheek. She hesitates at her lips, a realization lighting through her eyes. “Are you afraid of me?” Those words make Bedelia shiver, an echo of a voice wrapping themselves sweetly in her ear, surfacing the hazy memory of a whisper, teeth scraping at her neck, hands playing upon her skin as if she was an instrument someone could draw music out of. How she could  _sing_. A sting settles in her body, electricity humming across every scar both on and inside her. Familiar phantom pain splits through her left thigh like lightning that doesn’t stop until it reaches toes that are no longer there. Suddenly everything is dark, and the blossom in her chest is wilting, dying, and she feels every bit as cracked as she fears she is.

Clarice can feel Bedelia stiffen beneath her, and she sits up reflexively to allow her to move, to not feel  _trapped._  “’Delia?” Her voice cracks with terror, but Bedelia can’t hear it. Instead she listens to what she has trained herself to, the drawl of Clarice’s voice, the name that only she calls her by, even when she finds it insufferable, especially in public when she is trying her best to look upset and all she can do is laugh.

The memories dull and fade, dragging her panic slowly behind them.

Clarice watches her as she calms, drawing deliberate breaths through her nose until she opens her eyes again. “I’m alright,” Bedelia hums.

“It’s him,” Clarice fumes quietly, dropping her head to touch Bedelia’s chest. “He hurt you.” They both know who  _him_ is.

Bedelia shakes her head. “No. Hannibal may have done many things, but he did not hurt me. Not this way.”

“He is hurting you now,” Clarice insists, hovering protectively as if she thought the man himself would come barreling in here and she would have to fight him. “Regardless of the past, he is hurting you this way now.”

There is anger in Clarice’s voice, enough to make her accent deepen and Bedelia can feel a smile flicker over her cheeks before she pushes herself up on her arms, bringing Clarice with her until she is pressed against her with her lips kissing her neck. The curtain of her blonde hair curls over her shoulder, and Clarice’s hands tighten around her, holding her steady. “Do you know,” Bedelia begins, the tip of her tongue meeting the fierce edge of Clarice’s jawline, “when I curl my fingers inside of you, you arch your back.” Bedelia feels the woman shudder, her touch dropping to the base of her spine. “And you spread your legs and  _sigh_  so beautifully.”

“Bedelia,” Clarice moans softly into her hair.

“Like that,” Bedelia grins, resuming her kisses. “You sound like that when you thrust your hips. And you are so open Clarice, so  _open_  that I feel overwhelmed. You aren’t afraid. You are at your most vulnerable and your first thoughts are not thinking of all the ways your lover might take advantage of seeing you like that.” There is a rumble low in her throat, like a possessive, predatory growl. “Of how it might be used against you. You never built a guard around your own pleasure only to later find that even you can’t touch it anymore.”

Clarice buries her face in Bedelia’s neck, nuzzling the soft skin there with her nose. There is darkness in the woman she holds, but she doesn’t shy away. She can hear what she’s saying beneath the bared teeth. “I’m sorry.”

“Something you must understand about me Clarice is that I am always afraid. Fear makes me cold, it makes me untouchable and for as long as I can recall that has been my defense against the world. It is what helped me survive Hannibal Lecter, and it is what helped me bury everything I ever loved. I spent years like that Clarice, and the only company I kept was of those who were either afraid of me, or who were like me. And then I met you,” Bedelia breathes out a laugh at the memory, “And you show up on my doorstep, an F.B.I. trainee sent to test her mettle against the most damaged animal Jack Crawford ever caged. And you just feel everything. I can read you so easily and yet I can’t predict you because you just…aren’t afraid of me. Even when I’m afraid of myself.” At that moment Bedelia wishes she could reach for Clarice’s chin, to kiss her, to help her understand the gravity of what she has just confessed, but Clarice is holding her so tightly she thinks she might not be able to breathe. They are silent together, Bedelia ignoring the tickle of Clarice’s hair on her cheek, letting her words curl into the air around them like a melody. How strange it was, she thought, to feel so fearsome and so much fear at the same time, an exquisite and painful contrast. The very balance of the remaining precarious strings of the life she clung to had been upset by Clarice – but in a way that didn’t feel invasive. It felt natural. It felt like love.

Finally, after Bedelia fully relaxes in Clarice’s hold, the younger woman speaks. “Thank you. For telling me.” 

“You already know how much I hate your tendency to wear other people’s damage as your burden, or as your fault. I don’t want you to do that with me.”

There are words at the tip of Clarice’s tongue that she keeps to herself. Bedelia already took one risk today – and she has no desire to see her hide away again. But perhaps she can coax this moment, can soften the sting of rawness. Her hands go to Bedelia’s hips, tracing the curve of her abdomen. “I promise the only thing of yours I’ve worn is that very thoughtful bite mark you didn’t tell me about under my jaw.”

Bedelia smiles, her eyes narrowing as she gently presses her teeth to the spot. “Just a reminder that caged animals don’t forget their nature.” She wriggles in Clarice’s arms, pushing herself until she is perched on her right hip in her lap, their foreheads touching. She hesitates for a moment, before taking Clarice’s hand in her own and bringing her fingers to her lips. Bedelia nips at them like a warning, then brushes her cheek against them. “I’ll still bite. But if you are very still, and very gentle…in time I may begin to trust myself to be vulnerable around you.”

Clarice’s heart is beating faster than she can ever remember. Bedelia can morph from a fragile orchid into a deadly predator at the drop of a hat, and Clarice knows that there will be no matching her. There is no mask, not when the mask is constructed from reality. It both arouses and terrifies her, but she is content to know that Bedelia is also content, that she is willing to try and  _trust_. “Then I will be still,” Clarice whispers. “And I will be happy to be so.”


End file.
